


Ebon's Bane

by brioche_equinox



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A bit steampunkish??, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Idk man it's a dumpster fire tbh, M/M, blacksmith!marco, exiled!Jean, sort of medieval??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 15:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13126641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brioche_equinox/pseuds/brioche_equinox
Summary: For TooMuchEffort / Alex-Is-Wily.Marco is a blacksmith living by himself with a desperate moral compass, trying to do right. That is, until the notorious pirate ship, the Epervier, attacks and he finds himself in the company of someone who's hiding more than Marco can begin to believe.





	Ebon's Bane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TooMuchEffort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooMuchEffort/gifts).



“Are you still open, or…?”

Marco paused to wipe away the beads of sweat beginning to glisten on his forehead as he continued to stoke the fire beneath the forge, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. His face broke out into a grin.

“For you? Always, old friend,” he remarked. He shovelled more coal into the furnace before letting the cast iron door swing shut as he straightened up, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “How are you, Armin?”

Armin gave him a meek smile and stepped over the threshold of the smithy. “It’s been a while,” he said. “I’m sorry, things get so busy in the castle it’s hard to find time to venture out…”

“No, no, it’s fine, don’t apologise.” Marco put the iron poker back in its stand as he crossed the little shop to his cluttered worktable. He swept the mountains of paper and sketches and various tools aside and pulled up a chair, gesturing for Armin to sit. “How’re the Royal Archives treating you?”

Armin ducked his head as he took a seat, absent-mindedly fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. He was dressed in a tapered waistcoat, the breast pocket of which was emblazoned with the royal crest, as well as a loose fitted ivory shirt, both of which fairly simple in design, but constructed of clearly expensive fabric. The silver handcrafted buttons of the waistcoat were made to look like roses, and glimmered across Armin’s chest, shining so brightly Marco could just about make out his own distorted, filthy reflection.

“It’s…well, it’s great.” Armin grinned. “Just getting to _see_ them is a privilege in itself but getting to _work_ in them? There’s so much history and culture and…it’s fascinating- there’s texts and books going back to when the monarchy was established, well over nine centuries ago…”

Marco sat across from him on the other side of the table, withholding a wistful sigh. “Sounds amazing.”

Armin nodded furiously. “And it’s not just the books, but the _people_ who come on the Queen’s invitation- the scholars and scientists from all over the country- they’re incredible people with unbelievable stories about the outside world, and…” he broke off, his gaze falling to his lap.

Marco shifted in his seat a little. “Have…have you heard from them at all?”

Armin bit his lip, followed by a solemn shake of his head. “No. Nothing. Not since they…left.”

Anxiety ran deep in the creases of Armin’s worried brow as Marco reached over and placed what he hoped to be a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. Armin. You couldn’t have stopped them.”

“I know. It’s just…” Armin shrugged helplessly. “You know how it is. You wonder if…if there was something you could’ve said…or done differently to make them stop and _think…_ or…”

“I know,” Marco said softly. “But you know what Eren’s like. Only actual death would’ve stopped him from the chance to see beyond the kingdom. And of course Mikasa would go with him. She hasn’t left his side since you first introduced me.”

Armin let out a noise that sounded stuck halfway between a derisive snort and a laugh. “You’d think two squires might’ve had a few reservations about running away in the middle of the night to God knows where. Something about honour. Loyalty.”

“Honour and loyalty probably had very little to do with it,” Marco said dryly. “I sort of understand why they did it, though.”

“Really?”

“Well…to a certain extent. I could never leave this place. Not permanently.” Marco ran his hand over the uneven surface of the wooden table, fingering the scars it bore, deep groves from blades and tools alike, as he glanced around the dingy little smithy he’d called home ever since he was a child. The flagstone floor and drystone walls were just as much a part of him as the freckles on his cheeks; the tools he’d inherited from his father more like extensions of his own limbs than hunks of metal. He’d grown up here, a blacksmith’s apprentice, learning the ways of the smithy beneath his father until soot and ash imbedded themselves into the lines of his hands, until all he could taste was copper and iron and ore, until he could craft a blade that was worthy of being turned over in the hands of royalty.

“You can’t help wondering, though,” he said, more to himself. “Maybe…maybe there is something out there. Something more. Something you can’t just read about in a book, something worth seeing for yourself.” He sucked in a sharp breath before he shook his head. “So, what dragged you away from that wonderful Archive to make you come all the way down from the castle to see me? What can I do for you?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Armin slung his leather satchel around his waist and produced a small, crimson leather sheath stamped with the royal crest. The silver hilt of a small weapon protruded from one end. “I was wondering if you could take a look at this for me.”

Marco held out his hand and took the blade from him, pulling it out of it’s sheath for closer inspection. It was a parrying dagger, the silver hilt embossed with the same roses as Armin’s buttons, its serrated edge clearly worn and dulled with use.

“Where did you get this?” Marco asked.

“We…Archivists are told to carry them. For self-defence. Because we have direct access to the castle and potentially invaluable information, we…well, we’re easy targets for…thieves, spies.”

Marco’s head jerked up from the dagger.

“It doesn’t happen _often,”_ Armin quickly added. “It’s not a common occurrence, I promise, we’re talking worst-case-scenario here. It’s just extra protection. More of a deterrent, really.”

Marco nodded slowly, lowering his gaze back to the dagger in his hands. He held the blade up to the light, turning it over between his fingers as his eyes danced across what once would have been a razor-sharp edge, picking out the dents and scrapes the blade bore like battle scars.

“It’s not in great shape,” he observed.

“Well…no,” Armin admitted. “It’s not new and- I thought you might be able to…well, you know, do what you do. Work your magic.”

Marco bit back a grin. “I’ll see what I can do. You know what kind of dagger this is?”

Armin hesitated. “It’s…for parrying.”

“Yes, but this particular design was referred to as a _swordbreaker_. Here-” Marco ran his thumb across the jagged teeth on one side of the blade, like the teeth of a comb. “-they’re designed to trap a larger blade between them to make deflecting attack easier. It wasn’t a common design when they first came about, and certainly not now.”

“Are you saying there’s nothing you can do?”

“What I’m _saying_ is, we don’t make blades like this anymore, so I’ll try, but the best I can do is probably straighten out the blade, maybe reinforce it a little and sharpen the edges again. Will that do?”

“That’ll be great,” Armin said. “Sorry. I didn’t realise it was so…outdated.”

Marco got up and went back to the furnace, laying the dagger on a separate workbench for a moment as he sifted through the metal he’d spent the past week extracting from their ores. “I think I’ll weld it to  some iron alloy, just so it doesn’t snap when I’m sharpening it…quite frankly, I’m surprised you were even _given_ this to begin with. You’d think the Council would provide you with something more… _current._ Especially if it’s for self-defence.”

“I suppose,” Armin said, getting up from where he was sat to cross the room and watch as Marco settled down in front of the furnace, stoking its fire once more, preparing to work. “But, to be fair, I’m just an Archivist. They’d probably save the actually _effective_ weapons for, you know, actual guards.”

“Oh, this’ll be more than effective by the time I’m finished with it,” Marco flipped the dagger around in his hand with a deft swipe, catching it by the handle as he lowered it into the flames. “Just you wait.”

It wasn’t long before the smithy was full of the sound of Marco at work. The crashing of metal upon metal rang out like thunder, the crackle of the flames, the deep hiss metal made when it sank into a pail of water to cool, the screech of the grindstone, the patter of sparks striking the flagstone floor. Soot plastered itself against the freckles on Marco’s cheeks and sweat ran down his back, but he didn’t stop, not even to talk, not until he was finished.

“There,” he said at last, holding the finished thing out to Armin. “Reinforced, sharpened, good as new. How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Armin said as he took the dagger from him, turning it over to admire Marco’s work. “Couldn’t have dreamed of better.”

Marco gave him a weak grin. “At the very least tell me you know how to use it.”

“Of course I do. Well. Mostly.” Armin ducked his head with a sheepish smile as he slid the dagger back into its sheath. “I got some…rudimentary training, of sorts, when it was given to me. I-” He broke off suddenly as his head twitched to the side, the smile on his face completely gone.

Marco frowned, unfolding his arms. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I…do you hear that?” Armin said.

Marco cocked his head towards the door, listening intently. At first, he heard nothing, not even footsteps on the cobbles outside the door to the smithy, but as they remained quiet, there it was. A distant humming, growing louder with every breath, muffled shouting, something rattling and…

“Cannon fire,” Armin mumbled, his eyes growing wide. “Marco-”

Marco threw his tools aside and sprinted to the window, leaning out to see shadows crawl up the buildings around them, darkness seeping in the cracks between the cobblestone road, and as he tilted his head to the sky and felt cold fear turn over in his stomach.

A gigantic ship was flying over them, scarcely feet above the rooftops of the houses surrounding them. Enormous propellers keeping it airborne whipped up a vicious wind in its wake as it’s billowing white sails, easily big enough to cloak the entire street and then some, lashed against their constraints.

“Holy shit,” he whispered before there was a faint cry over the noise of the ship, followed by the great boom of a canon that made very walls of the smithy shake, resonating deep in Marco’s chest as he stumbled backwards, hands clapped over his ears.

“Armin!” he yelled over the noise. “Armin, what’s going on?”

Armin had gone chalk-white as he flew over to Marco’s side to peer out of the window for a brief second before a second cannon shot rang out and sent them both tumbling to the ground with the force of its shockwaves rippling through the ground.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” Armin was saying, over and over in a sort of horrified whisper. “It’s them. Oh God. It’s _them.”_

Marco winced at the ringing in his ears. There was more noise- on ground level, several streets over, loud enough to carry and be heard over the deafening rumbling of the airship overhead. People yelling, the clash of metal, the blast of a gunshot. His blood ran cold as he scrambled to his feet, hauling Armin upright.

“ _Them?”_ he said. “What do you mean?”

“It’s- it’s-” Armin swallowed, but fear was evident in the whites of his horror-struck eyes. “The Epervier. That’s the ship. It’s- they’re- they’re pirates.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Marco said grimly. He glanced outside, cold fear forming a tight knot in his stomach as he thought of the people in the houses across the road from his, frightened and powerless to do anything as battle was waged only several streets away from their own. “What are they doing here? Is this an attack on the castle?”

“It has to be,” Armin said. “It’s the Epervier. They’re- they’ve made a name for themselves a-as- they’ve established themselves as leaders in all movements against the monarchy- but they don’t- they’ve never mitigated a full-fledged attack on the castle before-”

He was interrupted by further shots, but this time, from the opposite direction, and they appearing to have made impact. There was deafening crash as a cannon ball presumably made contact and ripped its way through the ship. Both Armin and Marco instinctively ducked away from the window, covering their heads as one of the ship’s splintered masts crashed to the ground and rolled down the hill.

“We don’t have time to worry about the why right now,” Marco said, his heart pumping wildly in his chest.

“I-I…I can’t be here,” Armin gabbled. “I-I have to be at the Archives- i-it’s my…I’ve sworn to protect them with my life- I-I need to be there…but I…” The roar of The Epervier’s engines passing overhead drowned him out and distant cannons from the castle continued to boom. Buildings all around the castle’s stronghold must be being obliterated as they spoke. It sent chills down Marco’s spine to even think about.

Marco reached out and gripped Armin by his shoulders, his filthy hands smearing black soot onto the pristine ivory shirt. Armin was shaking like a leaf. “Armin. Listen to me. We need to get you to the castle. I know you’re frightened- _this_ is frightening- but if you have a duty to uphold, you need to carry that through. You need to get to the Archive and do your sworn duty to protect what you’ve dedicated your life to keeping from the enemy.”

“I-I-” Armin didn’t seem capable of formulating a response. The clash of metal from outside was growing louder. There was yelling and swearing and gunshots, ringing out clear as day, cutting through the deafening din of the airship. Whether it was the sound of the castle guards defending their King, or pirates creating chaos amongst the citizens of the stronghold, they couldn’t tell.

 Armin’s grip tightened on the dagger he held clasped to his chest. “T-they’re getting closer.”

Marco exhaled sharply through his nose and swore under his breath.

“Then we need to get out of here before they show up.”

“Wait, _we?”_

“You said it yourself, if they’re getting closer, I don’t want to be anywhere near them when they bring the fight here.” Marco crossed the room in four long strides, wrenching the doors of the closet open to reveal a rack of select weapons deemed unfit for purchase, but a waste of precious materials to discard.

“I- Marco, no, I can’t ask you to-”

“You’re not asking me to do anything.” Marco withdrew a rudimentary longsword from the closet and shut the doors, removing the blade from its sheath to check it was still in usable condition before he buckled it to his belt. “I’m being selfish. I just want a means to get out of here.”

Despite himself, a small, weak smile slid onto Armin’s lips for a split second, even though the resonance of a cannon shot that rang out at that moment made him wince. “That’s not true. You’re worried about me.”

“That’s also part of it, yes.”

“Can…you _use_ that thing?” Armin narrowed his gaze at the blade strapped to Marco’s hip. “Or is it just for show?”

“I’ve spent my whole life around these things,” Marco said as he went over to the back of the smithy and bashed open the backdoor, it’s rusted lock giving way almost immediately. “I can handle myself. Right. Where to?”

“We can’t go back the way I came,” Armin said, his expression quickly becoming solemn once more. His knuckles were white against the dagger. “I went directly down the Main Street, and if they’re attacking the castle, then it’s a guarantee they’ll be there.”

Marco stepped out of the backdoor onto the opposite side of the street, glancing up at the sky from beneath the wooden shelter. The racket still hadn’t subsided, and sure enough, the Epervier was still there, hovering above them like a giant storm cloud, but it had moved from being directly above them to a little ways off. If Marco stood and watched, he could see a flurry of movement on it’s decks. He flinched as another cannon fired from the ship. The noise tore through the air, and, judging by the whooping reaction of the Epervier’s crew, had clearly made the intended impact.

Marco’s hand found the hilt of the sword at his side. He gripped it resolutely.

“They’re not as close,” he said, as Armin emerged from the smithy beside him.

“T-then…maybe if we stick to the buildings and side streets, maybe we can make it.”

“Then let’s go.”

For the most part, despite trembling like a newborn calf, Armin led the way. They skirted around the main streets, checking every street corner, but for the most part, the streets were deserted. People were cowering in their homes, too frightened to move. Occasionally they passed a stranger fleeing in the opposite direction, terror in every line of their face. Twice they came across the keeled-over body of a fallen guard, a bloody rose blooming through his chainmail. They turned and went in the opposite direction both times.

Marco’s breath was shallow and his heart was hammering in the base of his throat, leaping into his mouth every time they heard a shout from the fight on the ground they’d escaped from. Even though the castle loomed overhead, they didn’t seem to be getting closer, despite Armin seemingly navigating the alleyways they were taking with uncharacteristic confidence.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked eventually.

Armin snorted. “I grew up with _Eren Jaeger_ on these backstreets. Do you have any idea how many fights we had to try and get him away from?”

“Fair enough.” Marco was interrupted by the unmistable sound of a gunshot slicing through the air like a knife somewhere nearby. His hand flew out to stop Armin from taking another step forwards, the other going straight to the hilt of his sword. “Wait. There’s someone there.”

“This far in?” Armin said, eyes widening. “But the castle isn’t- do you think they’ve made it inside?”

Marco strained his ears, trying to listen. There was nothing, until a second gunshot was fired, and then footsteps clattering over the cobblestones, going in the other direction.

“No,” he said, the tension in his shoulders slackening. “They’re retreating.”

Relief passed over Armin’s face for a split second before he frowned. “Then why mount an attack on the castle if they were just going to retreat? Surely they can’t have given up so quickly?”

Marco shrugged as they reached the end of the alley and peered around the corner at the otherwise deserted street testily. The Epervier still hung overhead, like a gigantic hawk, but the cannonfire had ceased, and it was, slowly, drifting away. “I don’t know. Maybe the guards were stronger than they thought.”

“Or…or maybe they started _with_ the castle.”

Marco shot him a look.

“Think about it,” Armin said, his face paling. “They didn’t attack with no reason. They’d have to be fools to  even think about trying to breach the castle’s defences with just one ship and one crew. I…this may just be a feeling, but I don’t think this was meant to be an attack.”

Marco passed a weary hand over his face. “Armin, these are pirates we’re talking about. Maybe they just wanted to cause chaos, upset the status quo.”

“And risk the lives of their crew _and_ their ship by going up against the largest stronghold in the kingdom? I don’t think so. I- I have a feeling this might’ve been more than we think.”

Marco frowned. “What makes you say that?”

Armin opened his mouth to reply, but then clearly hesitated. He ducked his head and shrugging, mumbling something along the lines of, “It’s just a thought,” before he straightened up and gave Marco the best reassuring smile he could muster. “I-I think I can make it on my own now. You…you should get back to the smithy. Make sure it’s safe.”

“Are you sure?” Marco asked. The idea of Armin, half a foot shorter than him and about half as wide, running through the streets that had been ravaged by pirates only moments ago wasn’t a comforting thought. “I don’t-”

“No, really. I’ll be fine. Like you said, they’re retreating.” Armin looked him squarely in the eye. “Please. I’ll be fine.”

“…All right,” Marco relented. “Take care of yourself. Use that dagger if you have to.”

“I will.” Armin gave him a strained smile as Marco extended his hand and clasped it firmly in return. “You too.”

And just like that, he was gone, scurrying off across the street and disappearing down a different back alley, as fleeting as a mouse.

Marco turned around and started making his way back the way he came. The sound of the Epervier’s engines were drifting further and further away with every step he took and he could no longer hear the clash of a fight on ground level. Instead, people were slowly beginning to emerge from their homes, glancing around in complete disorientation. Guards were resuming patrol, going from door to door, reassuring the stronghold’s citizens all was in order and they were safe once more, despite their injured comrades being dragged away behind them, one of the two bodies Marco had passed on the way here thrown over a shoulder, limp and lifeless.

Marco swallowed and quickened his pace.

_Pirates? In the stronghold? Who would’ve thought?_

_They’re gone now, you’re safe._

_What were they doing? Who did they kill? What did they steal?_

_Nothing, sir, nothing._

Nothing?

Marco bit his lip. Did he believe Armin’s basis for a conspiracy theory? No, not really. He’d grown up on stories of pirates ravaging the borders of the kingdom, swooping evil from the skies, but they’d never been a real threat before, not so close to the castle, let alone within the stronghold. He knew they were deplorable people who use deplorable means to reach their own deplorable ends, and that was that. They weren’t people capable of redemption. Of course, that said, he’d never actually met a pirate of any sort, so he wasn’t exactly one to pass judgement, but as a citizen and a subject of his King, he knew where his loyalties lay and who were to be treated as the enemy.

But he had to admit, Armin did have a point.

Attacking the stronghold- no, the castle- with a single ship was reckless. For a organised group, pirates though they may be, who were well known for their opposition to the monarchy, it was a remarkably risky, near _suicidal_ attack that they were extremely lucky to be flying away from. For them to have survived this long without capture or prosecution meant this incident was isolated, and not testament to their usual methods of carrying out treason.

So was there a different goal in mind?

Marco shook his head. Even if there were, it wasn’t up to him to try and figure it out. There were Archivists like Armin and scholars and the Council for that. Better for him to keep his head down over his grindstone and stoke the fires of his furnace, not conspiracy.

The smithy was unharmed, and there was no one around. Marco breathed a sigh of relief as he went around the back and shut the backdoor he and Armin had escaped from, striking the rusted lock until it slid closed once again. He inhaled the intrinsically familiar smell of coal and rust and metalworks, letting the adrenaline he’d been running on for the past half an hour settle in familiarity.

And then a gun was pressed to the side of his head.

“Don’t move,” a severe voice snarled. “Or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Marco’s hand immediately flew to his hip for his sword but before his fingers could even brush the hilt he was struck in the back of the knees, making him cry out as he went sprawling.

“I said _don’t move!”_ the voice thundered. The gun rammed into the back of Marco’s skull. “If you try _anything_ your brain will be scrubbed off this floor for weeks to come, so don’t _fucking test me_!”

Marco froze. Cold metal dug into the back of his head, carrying with it a threat against his life, the prospect of _one wrong move and I’m finished, if I so much as breathe wrong he’s going to pull the trigger, if his finger slips then it’s all over, I’m gone, I’m gone…_

His breath grew shallow in his throat. His cheek was pressed against the cold flagstone floor, not even daring to blink.

 “Good choice, freckles.” The intruder sounded somewhat satisfied. “Now, you’re going to tell me just who the fuck you are.”

“ _What?”_

The gun cocked. “Do as I say!” he snapped. “Are you a soldier? An assassin?”

“I-I’m a blacksmith!” Marco said, frantically. “I’m just a blacksmith!”

“A blacksmith?”

It might’ve just been Marco, but he thought he heard a trace of disappointment in his assailant’s voice.

Marco licked his lips apprehensively. “What are you doing in my shop?” he asked, slowly, carefully.

“Shut up.” The barrel of the gun was shoved into the back of Marco’s head once again. “Shut up and listen, all right?”

But the initial shock of the encounter had worn off, and the longer Marco lay there, listening to a voice alone, the easier it was to notice that the intruder’s threats were loose, if not entirely hollow, at best. There was a tremor in his voice, a wavering note every time he issued a command like he wasn’t entirely convinced the gun would be enough on its own; and if Marco focused on the cold, iron tip of the revolver promising to splatter the insides of his skull onto the floor the moment he did something wrong, he could feel it shaking, quivering like a leaf in the wind.

Heart in his mouth, he dared to look over his shoulder.

“I said _don’t move!”_

It was too late. Marco had seen him.

“You’re…one of them.”

He looked shorter than Marco, and easily half as broad. He had a narrow face with high cheekbones, a long, sharp nose, and piercing amber eyes that held the ferocity of a hawk. An ugly brown scar slowly whitening at the edges ran from his temple, across one eye, falling onto his cheek. His ashy blond hair was shorn into a clumsy undercut, accentuating his sharp jawline and severe expression. Every part of him was harsh and angular, from the razor shape his shoulders took to his long, bony fingers, one of which was still resting on the trigger of the gun directly aimed at Marco’s head.

“Turn around!” he demanded. The gun shook. “Turn around, god damn you!”

There was an earring dangling from the lobe of his left ear, a feather belonging to a bird of prey forced through a crude piercing that had scarred badly. Marco stared at it pointedly.

“You’re from the Epervier.”

“I swear to god if you don’t keep your mouth shut, I’ll shoot!” Fury shook in his voice, but it wasn’t the raw anger of a threat on Marco’s life. It was frustration, it was powerlessness trying desperately to disguise itself as courage. He was young, probably not much younger than Marco, and despite all his insistence, he didn’t seem prepared to shoot Marco. If he had, he would’ve done so the moment Marco set foot through the door.

“What are you doing here?” Marco asked, slowly and deliberately, forcing himself to meet his gaze. If he could appear completely unfazed, unflinching in the face of death, it might give him enough time to…

To what? Call for help? All the soldiers were making their way back to the castle to ensure the castle itself hadn’t been breached. There was no one within the radius Marco’s voice could reach who would come running before this kid really mustered up the courage to put a bullet in him.

He had his sword still strapped to his side. Maybe if he was fast, and drew it out at the right angle, he might just be quick enough to...

To take his life?

Marco couldn’t do that. The way his heart clenched at the very thought of driving a sword through this frightened kid- albeit a pirate- told him he didn’t have the tenacity. He could handle a blade well enough, but he certainly wasn’t skilful enough with the longsword digging into his hip to be able to wield it with the intent of disarming.

“That’s none of your business,” he spat.

“You’re in my shop,” Marco said. “I think that makes it my business.”

“You are _this_ close to getting a bullet in you,” he said, but he hesitated. “But...I think you might be able to help me.”

Marco fought a mad desire to laugh. “I’m sorry- you break into _my shop,_ hold a _gun_ to _my head_ and think that I’m even the slightest bit inclined to help you?”

“You say _one more_ fucking _word_ and I’ll- I’ll…!”

But the gun was shaking so badly now Marco couldn’t even feel it against the back of his head anymore. Sensing this was his chance, he scrambled to his feet and whirled around, backing away from the intruder and his revolver, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword.

“You could’ve shot me by now,” he said, breathing heavily through his nose. “But you haven’t. You want me alive. Why?”

The man sneered.

“I’m not telling you anything. You’re going to do as I say or I’ll-”

“You’ll do what? Put a bullet in me?” Marco took what he hoped came across as a menacing step forwards, making like he was about to draw his sword. “See, you keep saying that, but here I am, remarkably bullet-free,”

To his surprise, the stranger flinched and staggered back, as if he were trying to decide whether it was worth making a break for it. The gun was shaking so badly now, even if he decided to shoot the chance it would hit Marco was remarkably slim. The thought filled him with some confidence.

“Let me ask you again,” he said. He pulled the sword from it’s sheath and extended it between them, like he was daring his assailant to challenge him once more. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing in my shop,”

“…Fine,” the man grunted, finally, lowering the gun, though his finger on the trigger didn’t budge. “Fine, I’ll tell you. Yes. I’m a member of the Epervier’s crew. Happy? A wanted man has quite literally fallen from the sky right into your filthy fucking lap. Bet you can’t wait to hand me over to the castle guard as your prisoner and collect that sweet, sweet bounty, can you?”

Marco faltered. “There’s a bounty on you?”

“Yes, and if you don’t help me, I’m a dead man walking,” he snapped impatiently. “Listen. If you let me walk out of here by myself, when the castle guard find me- and they’ll find me- my blood will be on your hands, you got that? It won’t be the King, or some denigrating guard who killed me, it’ll be you. You would’ve let me walk to my death. And that’s just as good as doing the deed yourself.”

Marco’s grip on the hilt tightened. “Whatever you’re trying to do, it won’t work. You’re a criminal. Whatever penalty you have to face, you brought it upon yourself.”

“You don’t know that,” his voice softened, a deadly whisper, carrying with it a repressed rage dancing on the edge of his lips, unspoken words seething with cruelty and disgust. “You don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a cruel fate.”

Marco hesitated. As much as he hated himself to admit it, the man did have a point.

“What…” Marco licked his lips, slowly lowering his sword. “What do you want from me?”

“All I need you to do is get me out of here. In one piece, preferably.”

“Out of here? You mean-”

“Past the stronghold?” He nodded. “One good deed, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I don’t think helping a criminal is considered a _good deed.”_

The stranger threw his hands up in frustration. “What the hell is your problem? You don’t know a single thing about me and you’re assuming just because I’m associated with the Epervier, I’m automatically some lowlife degenerate who doesn’t deserve to be treated with any semblance of morality? You think you’re a good person, don’t you, you think you’re _so much_ better than this _scum_ standing in front of you? Well let me tell you something that might not have ever entered your pretty little head before.” He took several bold steps forward, undeterred by Marco raising his sword once more. The tip of the blade was scarcely an inch from his throat. “Some people have to make sacrifices they never wanted to. Some people find themselves in circumstances beyond their control. If you truly believe I’ve been condemned from the day I was born than drive that skewer through my neck and be done with me.”

The anger in his face was so visceral it was enough to raise the hairs on the back of Marco’s neck, sending a chill of fear spiking down his spine. It was his turn for his hands to shake. It took a tremendous amount of either courage or stupidity to demand for someone who was well within his rights to stake a claim on your life to dare try and take it, and it was enough to make Marco hesitate. Even though he spat his words with vicious disdain, anger curdling his voice into a crude growl, there was an underlying conviction Marco couldn’t ignore. Unyielding desperation that couldn’t mask itself behind fury.

“Do I…do I at least get to know the name of the convict I’m potentially risking my life for?” Marco asked, reluctantly returning his sword to its sheath.

The man took a step back, tipping his head back in scrutiny as he narrowed his gaze.

“Call me…Casse.”

Marco folded his arms. “Your _real name.”_

The man rolled his eyes as he tucked the revolver into the waistband of his breeches. “I don’t see why this is necessary.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is getting past the walls of the stronghold?” Marco said. “I have to pay merchants for the ore I use in my work because it’s not worth going through the gates myself, and that’s _legally._ You’re asking me to break the law for you, someone I’ve never met before, someone who I have every right to hand- no, someone who I am under _obligation_ as a citizen of my King to turn over to the castle guard,”

“That’s only because you don’t have the stones to kill me yourself.”

Marco chose to ignore him. “The very least I could get in return is knowing your name. I’m Marco, if that’s any help.”

“Marco.” He echoed. The way Marco’s name sounded in his voice was as if he was tasting it for the very first time, letting the two syllables slide off his tongue like a rivulet of rain water from a rooftop. “ _God of War_ , huh. Can’t see it myself.”

“Yeah, well, wasn’t exactly up to me.”

“ _Jean.”_

His voice was so quiet Marco almost didn’t hear him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Jean,” the stranger repeated, slightly louder, his voice sounding somewhat strangled. “My name is…my _real_ name is Jean.”

“Jean,” Marco repeated. “Right. Jean. Nice to meet you, I’m Marco.”

Jean’s face screwed up in almost instantaneous regret, disdain evident in every line of his scowl as he buried his head in his hands, groaning.

“Look what the fuck you’ve made me do,” he moaned, shooting Marco a look brimming with contempt. “No one know my real name, not even the rest of my crew. If you breathe a word of this to _anyone_ I’ll-”

“I get it, I get it,” Marco held up his hands in mock defence. “You’ll blow my head off, or something along those lines, right?”

Jean pulled a tight-lipped smile as his fingertips brushed over the exposed grip of the revolver sticking out of his waistband. “Glad we understand each other.”

Marco crossed his arms over his chest. “So? Mind telling me what the plan is so I can get you to wherever you want to be so I can forget about you and move on with my life?”

“An excellent idea,” Jean said, cocking his fingers at Marco in a mock salute. “If you hadn’t had a sword at my throat two minutes ago I’d say I like the way you think.”

Marco snorted. He didn’t trust Jean, not one bit, but it was remarkably easy to be so casual around him. Even though they’d had weapons at each other’s throats only mere moments ago, Marco felt no need to carefully choose his words or be anywhere near as humble as he pretended to be around potentially paying customers. There was a blight on the face of the earth right in front of him who had every intention of killing him should the need arise, but for some reason that Marco couldn’t (or simply didn’t want to) comprehend, he found that absolutely fascinating. He’d already established he didn’t have enough grey morality in him to take justice into his own hands. And he wasn’t doing anything _wrong. Illegal,_ maybe, but there was a difference between helping a criminal because he’d be killed if he didn’t and simply committing a crime because hey, what did he have to lose?

That said, the stakes didn’t feel particularly high. Whilst Marco knew he couldn’t muster up the gall needed to plough a blade through someone’s chest, he wasn’t entirely convinced that Jean had it in him to pull the trigger either, proverbial or otherwise.

Justice would find him, Marco surmised. One way or another, criminal or not, his sins would catch up to him one day, whether in this life or the next, and it wasn’t Marco’s duty to see either were brought to fruition.

“All I want is to get back to my ship. That’s it,” Jean was saying. “But I can’t get past the stronghold, not by myself. That’s where you come in. You know this place. You live here, you can get me past the guards and keep me out of sight.”

“Hold on- are they waiting for you? The Epervier? Just outside the stronghold?” Marco said doubtfully.

“ _No.”_ Jean gave him a pitying look. “What, do you think the Captain’s stupid, landing in enemy territory?”

“Stupid enough to mount an attack on the most powerful stronghold in the kingdom.”

“Hey. All you need to worry about is getting me back to my crew. The circumstances aren’t important.”

“Can I ask what’s in it for me?” Marco tipped his head to one side. “You’re making the assumption I’m all gung-ho about this near impossible endeavour of yours. What do I have to gain?”

Jean spread his hands. “A clear conscience. You’ll save a man from an early grave. You get to keep your head on your neck, if that’s where you like it. I don’t know, do you believe in a god? Extra heaven points, or something?” Jean screwed up his face once again before his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Fine. I can pay you.”

“ _That’s_ more like it.” Marco said. “One more thing. You’re going to stay out of my stronghold for good, you and the rest of your crew. I saw what your crew did today. You killed some good people carrying out their sworn duty to protect the citizens of this kingdom.”

Jean shrugged. “A conflict of interest. Happens all the time.”

“Listen. I’m not your friend,” Marco continued. “I’m going to help you because I want you out of my shop just as much as you do. No, more so. And if you make it worth my time then I’ll consider it worth committing near treason for.”

“Trust me. I’m not here looking to make friends. I have no friends. I’m here for me, and me alone.” Jean narrowed his gaze. “Don’t worry. I won’t be back. I’ve got what I came for.”

At this, his shoulders twitched, ever so slightly, and Marco noticed he had something strapped to his back. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was- it was vaguely sword-shaped, but wrapped in a good deal of fabric, so he couldn’t distinguish it’s exact size or what type of weapon it might end up being.

So that’s what they’d come here for. To steal.

Marco’s conscience gave a sharp twinge and he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from demanding Jean return whatever he stole. But it wasn’t his place. He’d come to terms with that. All he had to focus on now was getting this criminal out of the stronghold so repentance could find him in its own time.

“Good. Then let’s not waste any more time.” Marco unfolded his arms and readjusted the buckle of the sheath around his waist. “Tell me what you need me to do."

 

And that was how the life Marco Bodt had come to know came to an end.

 

He spat a mouthful of dust back into the dirt as Jean hauled him to his feet, practically throwing him back into motion.

“Go!” Jean roared. “Go! Go! Don’t stop moving!”

Marco’s chest was tight with laboured breaths as he forced himself to put one shaking foot in front of the other, over, and over, until his pace was so rapid he was struggling to think about anything other than how his legs felt ready to detach from his body. Jean was quickly hot on his tail, and not far behind him were a group of guards, broadswords drawn, bows drawn, arrows nocked in their direction.

A shot rang out and Marco instinctively ducked as something hit the tree several feet in front of him, tree bark splintering with an audible crack. Jean swore behind him and grabbed hold of Marco’s sleeve, diverting him off the path they were following and together went careening into the bracken surrounding the outer walls of the stronghold. The guards crashed after them with a good deal of clattering armour and hollowed yells for them to stop in their tracks.

Marco couldn’t. Not if his life depended on it.

And in this instance, it did.

Jean spun around for a split second, withdrawing his revolver and fired a couple of haphazard shots in the vague direction of their pursuers.

“You’re slowing down,” he growled as he turned back.

Marco felt ready to faint. His heart was pumping so fast it felt ready to explode and the muscles in his legs were beginning to burn as his feet struck the solid ground, the thicket scratching at his breeches. His lungs ached and his breath came in lacerations and sweat seared across his back.

“I- can’t- keep- this up,” he gasped. But it wasn’t like he had any other alternative. It was either stay and be caught and executed, or run and fervently hope you don’t get executed in the process.

The trip across the stronghold had gone relatively well, for the most part. Like he and Armin had done only a few hours earlier, Marco made Jean mostly stick to the side streets, turning in the opposite direction whenever they caught sight of a guard or mercenary. Jean, apparently, was very good at spotting both, in and out of uniform. He was equally as good at remaining relatively calm in the face of their inevaitable capture. He had master the most nonchalant of swaggers, the act of coolly turning about-face and making it look completely natural, despite Marco stumbling beside him. It had taken them twice as long to reach the outskirts of the stronghold than it would have if Marco had made them take the Merchant’s route, but they had made it without rousing any suspicion.

The edge of the stronghold was heavily guarded. The border was marked with a wall easily fifteen feet high, constantly patrolled, with one main gate, the comings and goings of which were monitored without fail.

Jean had been adamant the whole time they’d been walking through town that no one could see his face. He’d refused to duck his head as a guard approached, preferring to steer clear all together.

“If they see me, they’ll know who I am,” he’d hissed when Marco expressed his frustration of having to go back on themselves for the umpteenth time. “What part of _I’m a wanted man_ do you not understand?”

Apparently, now with freedom only inches from his outstretched fingers, that sentiment went straight out of the window like a bucket of shit.

Before Marco had even opened his mouth to suggest devising a plan to get past the guards Jean had raised his revolver and shot.

And now here they were. Past the gate, admittedly, with the stronghold growing ever distant behind them, but being pursued by a whole contingent, armed to the teeth, shooting to kill.

Marco had never been more scared in his life.

Careering off the path seemed to have put some distance between them and the guards, and whilst Marco’s first instinct was to slow his pace, it seemed to spur Jean on. He sped up and sprinted ahead, looking significantly better than Marco felt.

“If you stop here, you’ll end up with a bullet in you either from me or them,” he yelled over his shoulder. “If you’re the kind of person I think you are, you’ll make the right choice and keep up.”

Marco gritted his teeth. Whether he liked it or not the stakes had him pinned as a dead man if he didn’t keep moving. Even if they guards didn’t immediately run him through the moment they caught him, Jean would shoot him before he had chance to answer any of the guard’s questions about the wanted pirate he had associated himself with.

This wasn’t what he’d wanted.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to pick up the pace, his feet drumming over the ground.

“Good choice, freckles,” Jean said, and side by side, they tore through the undergrowth, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the men calling for their blood.

How much longer they ran, Marco couldn’t tell. It felt like , but it could have easily only been minutes. Either way he was exhausted and breathless and ready to keel over back into the dirt. They changed direction several times, Jean fired back several shots, and finally, finally, when all that surrounded them was the noise of their own crashing footsteps, did Jean come to a halt.

Marco practically fell to the ground as his knees gave way and he lay on the ground, trying to catch the breath that had long since escaped him. The ground was hard and warm against his burning face and dirt smeared his already filthy clothes. His blood was still racing through his body at such a pace it was hard just trying to focus on one concise thought that wasn’t about just how exhausted he was.

Jean dropped into a crouch, resting his elbows against his knees as his head drooped as he took some time to recover, but within moments he’d regained his composure and he was up again, prowling around the spot where Marco had fallen like a predator protecting its kill.

Marco eased his eyes open and watched him pace back and forth. The way Jean’s head twitched at every snapping branch, or the way his hand flew to the gun in his waistband at anything that sounded remotely like a footstep really did remind Marco of a wolf with it’s hackles raised, ready to go on the defensive at any given moment.

He struggled to sit up, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Look what you’ve done,” he panted. “If you hadn’t…just _shot_ like that…if we could’ve taken the time to…come up with some sort of _plan…_ we wouldn’t…”

“’If’ isn’t going to change anything now, Freckles,” Jean replied, not even bothering to look at him. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

What little energy Marco had managed to regain coiled hard in his chest as fury.

“I…I don’t think you understand the implications of what just happened,” he said breathlessly. “They…they saw us. Both. They know what your face looks like _and_ mine.”

“If they’re associated with the King, then they already knew who I was.”

“And now they’ll associate you with _me.”_ Marco buried his face in his hands, running them up his forehead to grasp at his hair in frustration. “Don’t you get it? I-I could be tried to treason. As a criminal. Helping you is tantamount to betraying my King and I- I can’t- I don’t know if I can go back- I won’t be able to go home, or-”

Grief was beginning to swell in his gut, manifesting itself into nausea replacing the stitch in his side. The thought of his smithy- the only legacy he had to his name- standing empty, no fire in the furnace, the weapons on the tables slowly rusting made his heart clench. He’d never see Armin again. He’d either have to fall into the hands of the law and risk everything or become a fugitive.

Sorrow quickly became anger, frustration curling his hands into fists. Every part of him just wanted to lash out, he wanted to bash his head against a tree for being so _stupid_ , so _gullible,_ so _naïve_. What did he think would happen, helping a _pirate_? He should’ve slice him open when he had the chance. It was never going to be as simple as sneaking past the stronghold. He knew that now. The fact they’d managed to evade capture with only minor scratches from brambles was a miracle. But it did nothing to lessen the fact that his own slip in judgement had just potentially made him lose everything.

“Where do I go from here,” Marco said, more to himself than to Jean, as he lowered his hands into his lap. “What can I do to…to…”

“All they know is you were seen with a known fugitive.”

“Running for his life.”

“Tell them I was holding you at gunpoint. Or I’d taken you hostage. Or…I don’t know, what do people blame pirates for? Blackmail? How about that?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Marco scoffed. “Are you happy? I’ve just forsaken everything for you, and I don’t even know why. Does that please you? Ruining someone else’s life?”

“This was your choice,” Jean said in a low voice. He’d stopped pacing and come to a standstill, feet together, one arm clutching the other, and suddenly, he looked vulnerable, almost ashamed.

“It was either this or you putting a bullet in my head,” Marco snapped. “I’d have to be an idiot to choose the latter.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I wouldn’t,” Jean cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t put a bullet in you. I couldn’t. I…it’s for show.” His fingers brushing over the revolver against his waist. “People…tend to do what you say when you’ve got a gun pointing at them. I…I don’t think I could ever shoot someone-”

Marco threw up his hands in frustration.

“You shooting people is literally what got us here,” he said. “You shot the guards at the gate, the people chasing us-”

“Because they wanted to kill you!” Jean thundered in response. “If I hadn’t done anything those men would’ve killed you on sight if they knew you were with me.”

“So why did you shoot and give us away before we had chance to think of _anything_ else?!”

Jean opened his mouth, then faltered. The ferocity in his expression receded and left his face looking remarkably young and exposed, like a frightened child, not an ounce of the merciless, hardened criminal that had had the muzzle of a gun pressed into the back of Marco’s skull only a few hours ago left. Shame quivered at the edges of his lips.

“I- because…I…it’s a…long story,” he managed to say, but he was clearly hesitating.

“And I don’t get to know because I’ve only just given up everything for you, a stranger of questionable morals who I’m a fucking _idiot_ for helping. Sure. Seems fair.” Marco said, his tone dripping with resentment.

“You live alone,” Jean said.

Marco gave him a withering look. “What?”

“You live alone,” Jean repeated. He looked at him almost sheepishly. “I noticed when I broke in, trying to escape the guards. No one else lives with you.”

Marco folded his arms. “No. It’s just me.” He got to his feet, but didn’t know whether to take a step forward or turn and walk in the other direction, leaving Jean to (hopefully) wander this barren land until he starved. But curiosity held him steadfast. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Do you have a family?”

Marco hesitated. “I did.”

“What happened to them?”

Marco closed his eyes, allowing that clench of grief to form an iron knot in his stomach once more for a fleeting moment before he opened them once more. “Plague.” He uttered plainly.

He waited for some emotion to register on Jean’s face. Sympathy, sorrow, and empathy were the standard reaction when he told people, but most the people who he knew either already knew someone or had also had family members suffer the same fate.

It had been almost a decade ago when the population of the kingdom, sprawling past the stronghold for miles and miles around had fallen victim to an illness, the likes of which had never been seen. People fell into their graves by the thousands, faster than they could be dug. The stench of death lingered in the air for months and months. Everyone’s shirts were splattered with the blood either themselves or their loved ones had coughed up, familiar faces were hollowed out and left gaunt with the ravages of sickness, limbs became warped and live flesh turned ashen and taut, like that of a corpse even before the illness claimed their lives.

Marco hadn’t been immune. He had been the first in his family to cough up blood across the flagstone floor of the smithy, to fall to the ground and wake up in a bed he thought he’d be confined to for what remained of his life. The illness had been a death sentence for all those who caught it and all he could do was watch as the hands against the bedsheets he didn’t recognise as his own grew thin and feeble against his will. All he could do was watch as his mother’s shoulders curled forwards and were wracked with convulsions as she vomited blood across the room, be a spectator as his father gradually became someone who no longer resembled the broad-shouldered, resilient man who hammered iron into weaponry without breaking a sweat. All Marco could do was sit and feel nothing as his younger brother, only seven summers old, died in the bed next to him, blood smeared across his face, his stomach hollow, his skin paper thin. Their deaths had not been dignified. Dignity wasn’t granted to the living in death. They were reduced to frail beings brought down by something they couldn’t fight.

Marco couldn’t remember much after that, except his own grief, just as overwhelming as it was painful as he recovered and his family died. How he managed to escape what had surely been a death sentence at the time, he didn’t know, but he lived through the years that followed- years of famine, due to the lack of farmers who had lost their lives; years of economic crisis as businesses were left with no one to run them; years of pain, suffering, aching loneliness, and the sentiment that maybe the ones that the illness took were the lucky ones.

But then a blessing in disguise came- the monarchy changed. The Queen too had fallen as a victim of the illness and was succeeded by the only heir left- her exiled son, born out of wedlock before her coronation. Marco wasn’t too familiar with the politics of it all, but the kingdom was so desperate for a competent King to pull them out of the ruins they’d been left in he was crowned. And though it sounded like a fairy tale, he became their salvation.

Marco had been sixteen when his family died. By seventeen, he had the furnace in the smithy going again, and by the time he hit twenty he was a full-fledged blacksmith and running the shop by himself. The stronghold recovered, the kingdom that lay beyond its walls thrived once again, and its darkest chapter was over; referred to only as the Plague from then on before it was archived deep in the castle.

But there was no trace of sympathy that passed over Jean’s face. No surprised twitch, no ashamed duck of his head. Instead he maintained steely eye contact, something harsh and resolute glimmering beneath his hawk-amber eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I lost my family, too,” he said. Pain didn’t visibly flit across his expression like Marco’s had, but Marco could tell there was an ache there too that they shared. Common ground he didn’t think existed. Jean had simply learned to suppress it, to smother and drown it out so he could pretend it wasn’t there.

Marco swallowed. “All right. Fine. We have that in common. But that’s got nothing to do with-”

“There’s a difference,” Jean interrupted. He bit his lip. “Listen. I’m about to tell you something that no one else alive knows. The ones who found out were killed and not by me. But…” He hesitated once again and turned away, pacing back and forth as he ran a hand through his hair. “This is big. This is my secret. What no one else knows.”

He took a deep breath.

“Ten years ago,” Jean began. “Illness arrived in this kingdom and the ones surrounding it, devastating them all. It was lethal and hundreds upon thousands of people were killed. This, you know. But what you don’t know is where it came from.”

Marco frowned. “The Plague…is an _illness_ , Jean,” he said. “It’s not sentient. It just _exists.”_

“Nothing just _exists,”_ Jean snapped. “And nothing ever just _goes away.”_

“But it did,” Marco said impatiently. “I don’t understand. The Plague was over a decade ago. It’s over, it doesn’t matter anymore. This has nothing to do with what we’re doing here.”

“It has _everything_ to do with why we’re here!” Jean yelled. “You can stop feeling sorry for yourself and stop planning to crawl back to your stronghold, pleading for the man who you call a King’s forgiveness, because believe it or not, everything you know is a lie and you’ve been living like cattle.”

“I…what?” Marco faltered. “I’m sorry, _what?”_

“Ten years ago, a man who no one knew where he’d come from showed up and claimed the throne in the kingdom’s most desperate hour. By some miracle the stronghold you just so happen to call home miraculously recovered.”

“And you think that’s not the case?”

“You were so damn grateful to have your lives pulled back from slaughter not one of you thought to question any of it.” The gentle vulnerability in Jean’s face was slowly being taken over by harsh lines of anger. His angular jaw quivered as he spoke. “And I don’t blame you. If a saviour came offering help when you needed it most, you’d have to be a fool to refuse. But it’s a lie. It’s all a lie.”

“What-”

“The man on the throne isn’t a King. Not your King. He’s a nobleman who was given an opportunity to ascend to power and seized it. Again, that’s understandable. The notion of becoming more than you are is appealing to anyone who’s been promised any kind of power.”

Marco wanted to laugh again. He tried to muster a disbelieving smile but his lips didn’t seem to want to cooperate, only twitching.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said. “Fine, let’s pretend this… _conspiracy_ of yours is true. Does it matter anymore? He may not be the heir to the throne by blood but we’re going on ten years of peace and prosperity.”

“You don’t know,” Jean blinked, and for the first time, looked genuinely surprised. “You really don’t know.”

Marco felt his cheeks burn. “Don’t know what?”

“Have you ever been beyond the walls of stronghold?”

“Yes.” Marco said defensively. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I have. I used to go out and collect ore myself before I could afford to pay people to do it for me.”

“But you’ve never travelled to the rest of the kingdom? You haven’t seen beyond a few miles?”

“Well…no. No one has. We don’t have to.”

“You’re living a lie. Beyond the stronghold there is no kingdom. There’s no other civilisation, no other stronghold, nothing. There’s only war, and famine, and people being killed.”

Marco’s blood ran cold.

“No. That’s not true. That- it can’t be true.” He shook his head. “We would- _someone-_ someone would know- someone would know if that was true.”

“Only if they travelled beyond the stronghold. Which no one ever does. Because what does the stronghold have? Peace and prosperity. In your own words.”

Marco shook his head, horrified. “You can’t just…make a claim like that without proof- I- don’t-”

Jean spread his hands. “I can’t prove what I’ve seen unless I take you with me and physically show you. It’s a warzone out there. People die everyday because the man in charge is sending every soldier he can to prevent anyone with any notion of democracy challenging his throne.”

“Are…” Marco licked his lips apprehensively. “Are you saying that the Plague was…him?”

Jean nodded.

“It wasn’t a plague. It was a curse.” He said. “A curse he paid for and cultivated with his own two hands and used it to infect the land. Like I said, I don’t blame you all for being ignorant of who he was when he came to power. You needed a King who could salvage what was left. But didn’t it ever strike you as convenient that as soon as he had the crown on his head the illness stopped?”

Marco shuddered.

“He killed his way to the top.” Jean spat savagely. “He wanted to make this kingdom a better place, starting with genocide. It’s disgusting.”

Marco slid down to the floor and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, coloured lights dancing behind his eyelids in a bewildering blur. Nothing felt real. He’d been fed a fantasy for a good portion of his life and he’d never _once_ thought to question it. He felt humiliated. He felt betrayed. He felt angry at promising to live to serve his King when the King’s hands were the ones smeared with Marco’s family’s blood.

“How do you know this?” he said, his voice scarcely a whisper.

Jean crouched down beside him and looked away, clearly hesitating.

“That’s…that’s the part that no one else knows,” he said tactfully. With one, trembling hand, he reached around to his back and unbuckled the swathed object Marco hadn’t deemed worthy enough of his attention. “This,” Jean said, weighing it in his hands. “This is why the Epervier was here. By my request. Because I had to do _something_. I couldn’t keep watching people die out there in the borderlands.”

Marco looked at him. “What…is it?”

Jean took a deep breath and slowly began to unwrap the object, letting the fabric it was swathed in trail onto the floor.

“When your King came to the throne, do you remember what his claim to it was?”

Marco frowned. “He…has was the Queen’s only son. He was born before she was coronated, which was before she married the Prince consort, so he was exiled…but you said that was…”

“A lie,” Jean finished for him. “It is. For him. But…” The last of the fabric fell away, and Jean held up the object it had revealed. Marco had been right. It was a sword of a calibre Marco had never seen before. Its blade was near translucent, edged in a thin trim of razor-sharp metal that glittered in the weak sunlight filtering through the trees overhead. The hilt was entirely carved out of what looked like some sort of mineral, the size of which it would’ve had to have been before it was chiselled Marco couldn’t begin to comprehend. It was embossed with golden vines snaking around the hilt up the first portion of the blade, giving way to a lethally sharp point. It had to be ceremonial. There was no way a blade like that was used in combat.

“What…” Marco whispered, partially in awe, and partially in shock, because he couldn’t believe Jean had stolen something so clearly precious from the _castle_ in the middle of the most heavily guarded stronghold there was.

“This is Ebon’s Bane,” Jean said reverently, laying the blade across both his hands with great care, taking in every inch of it as if he couldn’t believe it was in his hands. “Were you there when the Queen came to the throne? Did you see her coronated?”

Marco shrugged. “I- I think my parents took me, but I was so young I-”

“This blade belongs to the monarchy,” Jean said. “It’s a symbol that the King or Queen will fight for his or her people, and be their sword, figuratively speaking. To fight alongside them, despite the opulence. It’s one big metaphor and a bullshit symbol. But every rightful heir’s name is etched onto the blade from the moment of their birth, to prevent a coup. See?”

He held the blade out for Marco to inspect. Marco took it in trembling hands, peering closer at the crystalline sword, and sure enough, he could make out the words etched into the gold vines whirling up it’s hilt.

“So it does.” Marco said. “So this means that our King’s name isn’t-” but he stopped dead. He blinked. It couldn’t be. He brought the blade closer to his face. No. No way.

“This…is why I don’t tell people my name.” Jean said slowly.

“No. No. It’s…impossible.” Marco’s gaze swivelled from the last name engraved on the very edge of one of the vines.

_Jean._

“ _You’re_ the Queen’s son? You’re a _prince?”_

“Yes. Well. By blood, at least. Technically I’m still in exile.” Jean sighed. “Do you understand? This…this land is my birthright. I may have been born in the wrong circumstances to the wrong person at the wrong time but- but I couldn’t just sit back and watch this…this _imposter-”_ His fists clenched. “-take my mother’s throne after laying tyranny to her people. To _my_ people.”

“That’s why you joined the Epervier. They’re notorious for their views opposing the monarchy.”

“The _wrong_ monarchy.” Jean corrected him. “I won’t lie, the Epervier’s crew is full of criminals, and I guess by affilation I’m one of them. But they’re good people. Ex-soldiers, people who used to know your so-called King before he came to power, a couple of squires who are the _worst_ kind of people, but still trying to do the right thing.”

“Squires?” Marco echoed, the conversation he’d had with Armin dimly stirring in the back of his mind.

Jean nodded. “They’re all trying to make a difference, trying to get truth to come to light about what really happened ten years ago. People deserve to know who really killed the people they care about.”

That was the first thing he’d said that Marco wholeheartedly agreed with. This encounter no longer felt like treason, but an act of fateful justice. If people knew, if Jean could spread the word about what really happened- if Marco could somehow _help-_ then maybe this alleged war beyond the fictional world that was the stronghold could cease.

“I…” Marco hesitated. In the span of a few short moments, his whole life- his morals, what he thought to be true, his loyalty to who he thought was his King had come undone. What he was about to say wouldn’t make it better. If anything, it would make it worse. But this wasn’t about to go away. “I…I want to help.”

Jean didn’t seem impressed. “People say that all the time. But…I suppose you’re the first one to say it after hearing the whole story. No one knows I’m the real heir. Not even the Captain of the Epervier. I told him I was a servant in the castle when I was a child, which is how I knew about Ebon’s Bane, and how we could use it as proof for our cause. So you can’t tell anyone. Not yet.”

“I won’t,” Marco promised. “But I…first, I need to see this for myself. The world beyond the stronghold. It’s a lot to take in- and I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but at the same time you’ve given me no reason _to_ believe you…”

Jean nodded as he straightened up. “That’s fair. I can show you. That is…” he hesitated. “That is, if you’re OK with leaving this. Your smithy. Your friends. If all goes to plan over the next few years, it won’t be forever, but obviously I can’t promise that.”

Marco shook his head. “No. I want to help. It’s not right. If what’s in there-” he gestured in the vague direction of the stronghold’s walls. “Truly is a lie, then I want no part of it.”

Jean smiled, bent down, and planted the tenderest kiss on the tip of Marco’s brow.

“Good choice, freckles.”


End file.
